


Pretty Gay (Technically Bi)

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [8]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Awkwardness, Blowjobs, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, handjobs, precome insecurity, soothing of precome insecurity, surreptitious glances, watching softcore porn together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 16:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17811653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Jon and Tommy have some late-night Cinemax realizations.





	Pretty Gay (Technically Bi)

It's about midnight when Tommy throws the remote at Jon and says, "There's nothing fucking on. Amuse me."

Jon fumbles the catch; the remote lands in his lap, high up on his thigh. "Dude," he says, "I can't, like, make there be a good show."

Tommy pokes him with his toe. They're crammed onto Tommy's third-hand couch, both sprawled out in slightly too little space.

“Didn’t there used to be better stuff on at night? Like in high school. Nick at Nite and Adult Swim and like, fuckin’ Skinemax.”

“I think Adult Swim was college,” Jon says, and then, slower, not sure he should say it, “I’m pretty sure Cinemax still shows softcore stuff after midnight.”

"Yeah?" Tommy sounds like Jon feels, like he's walking a line and he's not sure which side Jon wants him to be on. "That'd—some of that's okay. There's nothing else on, so, uh. You wanna?"

Jon’s whole body feels weird and tense now; he shrugs almost like it’s the only thing he can make himself do. “Sure, why not? For, like, the nostalgia.” The nostalgia of sneaking into the family room at 1AM for the chance to see porn, even gently lit, gently shot porn. The nostalgia of jerking it until his dick hurt. Maybe Tommy had been more sensible: one and done and back to bed.

Or maybe not, Jon thinks, glancing sideways. He can't make himself switch the channel but he can see Tommy's cheeks going pink as he takes the remote back. Maybe he's remembering his own secret, slightly guilty late nights. Maybe he went to bed feeling sore and wrung out and unable to really stop thinking about—about the sounds he'd heard, about the glimpses of—of—

The sound from the TV changes abruptly.

It's instantly familiar, even though this is obviously crisp, recent filmmaking. The soundtrack concepts haven't changed in the last decade, apparently. It's not bow-chicka-wow; Jon can't actually put his finger on what makes it so obviously a porn soundtrack. Tommy might know; Tommy knows things about music. It seems like a safer topic than "boy, that chick is about to get boned, huh?" although—maybe he just shouldn't try to talk. Is it weirder to talk or not to talk?

It's weird too just to be watching this without... doing anything, to just be sitting there. Jon doesn't know the last time he was this aware of his own hands. Should he leave them by his sides? If he moves them into his lap, is that—does that imply—

He scrubs one damp palm against his jeans before he can think better of it, and sees Tommy's head move, incrementally, in his peripheral vision. "The, uh. Picture quality's better. Don't you remember it as like—grainy and sort of—like it _looked_ forbidden. Do you know what I mean?"

Jon does. "Like you weren't supposed to see it, so it was kind of pixellated. Yeah. And now we're adults and it just looks like everything else. Crisp and—too crisp, kinda."

"That's the giant TV, man," Tommy says. Tommy likes to brag about his giant TV, even its bad qualities. "Creepily too-crisp, that's the 4K advantage, right there. Imagine how it's gonna look when they start—uh."

Tommy laughs, kind of jerkily. He sounds like Jon feels: off-kilter, but in a way that makes him feel electrified. "Yeah," Jon says. "Better than the old days, huh?"

On the television, the pizza guy and the lady in pjs have started making out against a fridge. Maybe the film quality has changed, but the scripts seem to be carrying on like the sound.

“I can’t say I ever watched with anyone else back then,” Jon says. He probably shouldn’t have, but he’s getting hard, can’t help it, and if Tommy wants an out, Jon should give it.

“I did,” Tommy says, and Jon blinks and turns toward him. “Uh, this kid in my—this kid I knew, we used to watch sometimes, at his house, after his mom was asleep.”

Tommy's not looking at him, still just looking ahead at the screen, but he's still pink-cheeked.

"Yeah? You, uh, good friends?" Jon shouldn't be thinking about it. But.

"Uh huh." Tommy shifts in his seat. "Not like, like that. We never—" Tommy cuts himself off.

"But," Jon guesses, carefully, "you... wanted to?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess. Yeah. I mean—yeah." He shrugs, and Jon should turn his attention back to the screen but there is definitely nothing about the soft-lit humping in his periphery that seems more important than this conversation.

"It's—did he want to?" Jon doesn't know if he's allowed to ask. He doesn't know what Tommy needs him to ask.

"I don't know," Tommy says. "I, uh. We never talked about it."

"That sucks," Jon offers.

Tommy shrugs. "I mean, there's been plenty of guys since. Not—plenty, that sounds like—also girls, obviously—jesus. I'm gonna stop talking."

"You don't have to," Jon says. "I get it." There is a slightly unconvinced silence, underscored by the softcore music still playing from the TV. Jon wets his lips. This is _Tommy_. There's actual porn playing. He should be able to—to— "I've never," he blurts. "With a guy. Or watched, uh, this with a guy."

"We don't have to—"

"That's not what I'm saying," Jon manages. "I just—wanted you to know."

He's still getting hard, fattening up in his jeans despite the nerves, despite what Tommy's been saying. He kind of wants to put a pillow over his lap. He kind of wants to—to see if Tommy is hard too.

He could look. He’s already facing Tommy, still hasn’t made himself look back at the TV, even though for the last few minutes he’s been staring pretty fixedly at the wall. He could look. He could—

“If you wanted to,” Tommy says, low, “we could. I’d be down for that. Or we can pretend I never said that and I swear I’ll never bring it up agai—“

“Uh, yeah,” Jon interrupts. “Yeah. We could do that.”

Tommy startles, and turns to face Jon for the first time since they started talking. His colour is still high, red splashed across his cheekbones. "You—yeah?"

Jon nods. His heart is pounding, now he's let the possibility out. "Yeah," he says. God, his jeans feel tight. If Tommy glances over, he'd definitely see. He'd know how much _yeah_ Jon means.

“So like—“ Tommy looks over at the screen for a second. “Yeah. Let me, uh,” and then his hand finds Jon’s thigh, then his straining dick, through his jeans. “You can keep watching.”

Jon hasn’t _been_ watching, but he’s not about to say no to Tommy jerking him off. Not when he’s this fucking hard just thinking about it.

Tommy's hand on his dick feels—huge, and Jon can't help the noise that escapes him, quiet and shocked. "It's okay," he manages, before Tommy can move away, feeling himself flush. "That wasn't—I—" and Tommy seems to understand what he means. Tommy always understands him.

He tries not to squirm. Tommy’s hand is good, it’s so good, but he wishes it was on his skin and not just the heavy material of his jeans.

“She’s, uh, having fun,” Tommy says, tipping his chin towards the screen, and Jon turns to look. Maybe Tommy doesn’t want Jon to watch him while—well. Jon doesn’t really care about the bouncing breasts of the actress, just at this moment. It’s sort of hot, but mostly in a way that just distracts him from the warm, firm hand on his cock.

He wants to touch Tommy. 

He has to—he looks. Tommy's wearing jeans too, legs spread, and he _is_ hard, Jon can tell even through the denim. Tommy must see him looking, because his hand stutters. 

Jon’s mouth is too dry to speak, or maybe his brain is too overheated. He just reaches over, instead, wrong-handed but willing to give it a try. He pauses with his fingertips on Tommy’s thigh, high up. “Can, uh. Can I?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, too loud. “Yeah, anything.”

 _Anything_ feels like it might cover—more than this. “Like, uh,” Jon says, uselessly, and reaches over with his other hand to thumb the glinting tab of Tommy’s zipper. 

Tommy goes still in the way that means it's conscious, that he's fighting an urge to move. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, you can—you—" and Jon drags the fly down, and then there's the big bulge of Tommy's dick, just covered by boxers.

"I—" Jon says, and swallows, and lets himself touch, careful, thumbing the shape of it.

This really does feel like something he could have done in high school, that other guys probably did do. Not exactly like something two twenty-somethings would do, but—but the feel of Tommy’s cock, even through the silky material of his boxers, is enough to keep him from wanting more. Yet.

Jon hasn't looked at the screen in what feels like hours. He can't look away from the flush on Tommy's neck, from the his hand looks moving over Tommy's boxers. He cups Tommy's cock in his hand, just to see: it's definitely bigger than his.

Tommy pauses over Jon's zip too. "Can I?" he says, and Jon nods, throat dry. He—it's stupid, god, but a girl he dated in college told him he, he got too... wet, that he had too much precome or whatever, and he always thinks about that at this point, when someone new is going to touch him. He's wearing boxers it'll show through. Tommy will—there won't be any way to hide it. And it's not like he thinks Tommy will _mind_ , but: he always thinks about it.

Tommy shifts closer, both hands suddenly on Jon, popping the buttons open on his fly. Tommy’s so close now that Jon has to look away, turn his head away, or his face would brush against Tommy’s. Which ... would be okay by Jon, but he’s pretty sure that’s not what they’re doing.

Tommy squeezes a hand into Jon’s open fly and finds his cock again, and Jon gasps at how warm his hand is through the thin material.

Tommy makes this noise too, like he tried to stop himself, and Jon turns his head away for real this time, embarrassment starting to turn in his belly. But then:

"That's—you're so—" Tommy doesn't _sound_ grossed out; his voice is low, breathy. He's moving, gently, and he has to be feeling how stupidly wet Jon gets, the big damp spot on his boxers, the way his cock is pushing against them, pushing at Tommy's hand. Tommy squeezes it, and Jon _feels_ himself leak more, helplessly, up against the muted heat of Tommy's palm.

"Sorry," he says, squeezing his eyes shut.

“For what?” Tommy says, and the confusion in his voice is so genuine that Jon opens his eyes, just a little. Tommy’s face is so close, and he’s stopped moving, waiting to hear the answer.

“Just—uh—“ He shakes his head. “The, uh, the precome.”

Tommy looks down, towards his hand in Jon’s lap. “I don’t—what?” He moves his hand again, and Jon’s breath catches. “Is that supposed to be bad? Because it’s really, really hot.”

Jon's hips twitch; his body is really betraying him with this. Probably this isn't what Tommy meant when he offered, but—but Tommy said it was hot how wet Jon gets, how much he leaks when he's turned on. He wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it.

"It's really hot, Jon," Tommy says again, like it's important to him that Jon knows. "It's—can I—" and he pauses with his fingers at the fly of Jon's boxers, "Um. Touch? Properly?"

“Jesus, yeah. Yes,” Jon says, tripping over his words because _yes_ , Tommy can jerk him off for real. There’s nothing Jon wants more in the whole fucking world except maybe to pull Tommy in and kiss him.

His own hand, he realizes suddenly, has gone still and useless on Tommy’s dick, and he starts moving again, feeling the heat and the heft of it.

Tommy's breath comes out in a short burst: Jon must have done something right. "I want," he blurts, "um, I—" and between that and the way he's fumbling for the opening of Tommy’s briefs, he must get his point across because Tommy reaches down and helps open the fly for him. Jon just—Jon dips his hand into Tommy's silky underwear and then he has Tommy's _dick_ in his hand, hot and hard and _big_ , bigger than Jon's. It's flushed, and Tommy makes another stifled sound when Jon touches him skin to skin. _Fuck_ , Jon wants to kiss him.

He focuses on the handjob instead. It’s fucking ridiculous that a handjob should feel safer, easier, than a kiss, but in this moment there’s no contest at all. He knows how to jack off; he has no idea how Tommy would react to an attempted makeout.

Tommy’s dryer than he is, and he pauses to bring his hand to his mouth and spit in it. “See,” Tommy says, and then loses his train of thought for a second when Jon’s spit-wet hand wraps around him. He breathes, long and slow, then says, “See, it’s—it’s good how wet you are.”

"Oh god," Jon chokes, and then Tommy's pulling him out of his underwear too, slicking him down with his precome and starting to tug.

They get into a rhythm after a moment; it takes Jon longer to realize it’s the same as the rhythm he can hear from the TV. He can’t stop watching his hand on Tommy, looking so much smaller than it does on his own dick, or on a woman.

He’s not sure it should be hot, but it is. It really fucking is, thinking about how big Tommy feels in his fingers, how much it makes Jon weirdly, inexplicably, think about how wide his mouth would have to stretch to suck Tommy off. He’s never done that, with anyone; he’s certainly not going to do it now. Just—it suddenly won’t leave his brain, the idea of it. The way it makes his mouth water.

Tommy isn't watching the screen, Jon realises. He's staring down at Jon's lap, at his big hand around Jon's leaking dick, at the way Jon's dick twitches when he twists at the head. Maybe—maybe it's okay to look at Tommy too, then, at the way his brow is furrowed in concentration, at the colour in his cheeks, the way he's biting his lip to—maybe to keep quiet, maybe because Jon is making him feel _good_.

Maybe it isn’t okay, since Tommy’s gaze seems fixed on Jon’s dick, solely, but Tommy’s face is hard to look away from now that Jon’s started. It’s so familiar, but also—Jon’s never seem him like this, flushed and open-mouthed, pupils blown. He looks different, right now. Like a sexy, half-remembered stranger.

Tommy's done this with guys before. Not, like, this specifically, but he's had _sex_ with guys, other people who have seen him like this, who got to see this before Jon.

Tommy grunts, and Jon realises he picked up the pace on Tommy's dick without thinking about it, wanting more, to feel more, to give Tommy more.

Neither of them is even pretending to watch the porn at this point, and Jon wants to reach for the remote and click it off. He doesn't, because if this is the concealing gloss they have to put over the whole thing to make it okay, fine. He'll watch all the damn late-night softcore in the world.

Just, if Tommy's had sex with guys before, maybe they don't need the porn. Maybe they can do this again, sometime—more than this, even. Other things besides this.

Like—maybe he _could_ get to see what it felt like to stretch his mouth wide enough to take in Tommy's dick. Maybe Tommy would like it if, if Jon got on his knees for him.

That shouldn't be this hot, should it? Maybe the other way around, Tommy sucking him off, Jon closing his eyes and thinking about something else, but not this.

He says, stupidly, "This isn't that gay, right?" and Tommy's head jerks up, looking Jon full in the face for maybe the first time since he stole the remote.

"I," Tommy says, sounding startled, "what?"

Neither of them, Jon notices, have let go of the other's dick. Their hands have stilled but that's it. Tommy looks—turned on, god, but under that, concerned. Like—like he's not sure what Jon wants him to say. Like he's not sure what Jon _wants_.

“Not that that—is bad! Obviously! It’s 2006, people are gay, it’s fine. Good!” Jon says, tripping over the words, feeling stupider with every passing second. What the _fuck_. Should he let go? Has he completely ruined the mood?

Tommy, though, suddenly snorts and then laughs, quick bursts of mirth. “I mean—what if I said, yeah, it’s pretty gay?”

Jon hadn't thought of that. Admittedly he hadn't thought about anything beyond blurting that out, and he hadn't even really got that far. But—what if Tommy said it was? It's not like—it's not like Jon wants to _stop_. There's the obvious point about how he doesn't want Tommy to stop jerking him off, but that much must be a given, surely, it's not like anyone getting a handjob that they're into wants it to _stop_ , but then—but then Jon also doesn't want to give up touching Tommy either, not yet. He's just learned the weight of Tommy's dick in his hand, the way Tommy's eyelashes flutter when Jon tugs just right And that's—that's sounding pretty gay to Jon.

“That sounds—fine,” Jon manages.

If Tommy says it’s pretty gay, then maybe, god, maybe— “Could be gayer,” he says, and knows his eyes drop to Tommy’s mouth as he says it. 

When he looks back up, Tommy is watching him carefully. "Yeah?" he says.

Jon wets his lips. He's never had sex with anyone without kissing them, and that's what this is, really. Sex. That's what they're doing right now. Him and _Tommy_ , and they haven't even, haven't even _kissed_ , Jon doesn't know how Tommy _kisses_ — "Yeah," Jon says, all in a rush. "Yeah, I think—we should—could you—"

“Jesus, Jon,” Tommy says, voice so low it scrapes. He lets go of Jon’s dick to teach for his face, and for just this moment, that’s a trade Jon’s fine with.

It should have been aggressive, probably—biting and needy. Somehow, though, when Tommy kisses him, it’s more like a real first kiss, testing the waters. Like they’re not sure it’s okay, even with their cocks out and Jon’s hand stilled again on Tommy’s.

Jon sort of whimpers into it, completely without meaning to. Tommy's hand is just as big when it's cupping his face, smearing wetness along Jon's cheek and, _fuck_ , that's hot.

He leans in, switches his hand to Tommy’s thigh so he can brace himself and push Tommy back against the couch. The stupid porn is still playing behind them, but now it’s just making Jon want to laugh. They can leave it on; who cares, when there’s all of this to distract him.

Tommy grabs at him—for balance, initially, Jon thinks, but then for something else completely when he's steady against the couch, mouth opening under Jon's. His lips are thinner than most of the girls Jon has kissed, and even though he rolls his eyes a lot about his lack of ability to grow any facial hair, his skin isn't completely smooth against Jon's, and it's— _good_ , god, it's good, Tommy pulling him in and kissing him back.

This is so backwards but Jon doesn’t care, feeling out Tommy’s arms and his chest now instead of just his dick. Tommy’s always been bigger than him, not outrageously but enough to notice, and it’s intoxicating now. He mumbles, “You’re so big,” and Tommy laughs into his mouth.

“ _Now_ you say that,” Tommy tells him, blushing but grinning, too.

“Thought it before,” Jon says. “About, uh. Not just your biceps.”

Tommy laughs, still blushing, and sort of... squirms a little, which is interesting. "Oh my god, Jon."

"You are!" Jon says, because it's true, and because Tommy can't possibly be embarrassed about it. Who could be embarrassed about it? "It's, uh. I—like it."

“Now _that’s_ pretty gay,” Tommy says, and this feels so much better. Jon hasn’t realized how much he missed their usual joking ease with each other until it snaps back into place.

“I’ll show you pretty gay,” Jon says, and pushes Tommy back more firmly on the couch, leans over him at a whole new angle. He can do this. He can definitely do this. He can—

Tommy’s dick tastes salty-sour, is his first thought. Not a bad flavor at all.

"Holy shit," Tommy chokes, above him, strained. He's holding super still, which Jon appreciates. He's trying to balance and Tommy _is_ big, and Jon's trying not to push himself too much, not to embarrass himself. After the first taste, it's easier for him to take the head in his mouth, to fasten his lips and just... adjust.

It’s overwhelming: the taste, the stretch of his lips and his jaw, the way Tommy’s scent is suddenly filling his lungs. Tommy smells so much more intense right here, and more—Jon doesn’t know, more sexual, maybe. It’s certainly making him want to reach down and palm his dick where it’s caught against his belly from the way he’s bent over.

He's using one hand to keep himself steady, braced on Tommy's thigh—and it seems suddenly ridiculous that Tommy's still wearing jeans, still dressed, that Jon can't touch his skin.

He pulls off with an unplanned, obscene popping noise, and groans just from how the sound makes him feel. “Can—god—can you take these off?” he asks, plucking at the denim.

Tommy doesn’t answer except to immediately start wriggling out of them, lifting his hips off the couch and shoving them down. His underwear goes with, and that’s—yeah. Jon’s into it, into Tommy half-naked and hard, his cock shiny from being in Jon’s mouth. “Really gay,” Jon mumbles.

“Kinda technically bi,” Tommy says, “but you can call it whatever you want if you just, uh—get back to—“

Jon suddenly, hotly, needs to hear Tommy say it. His skin is prickling hot all over. "Get back to what?" he asks. "Can you—say it, I want—"

"Jesus," Tommy breathes, shifting underneath him. "Do—fuck, you want me to, to, tell you to—suck me?"

Jon is going to melt right here on the couch, right down into desperation and need. He nods, hard.

This is less new than the rest. Jon’s has more than a few girlfriends who were take-charge in bed, even in high school. Being told to eat someone out is one of Jon’s favourite things. And now, apparently, being told to suck someone off. Tommy. To suck _Tommy_ off.

" _Fuck_. Say—tell me again?" His voice is starting to come out weird, breathy.

Tommy shifts again, looks him in the eye. He must see—he must know what this is doing to Jon. He must—fuck, he must _like_ it, must want to see Jon coming undone like this. "Suck me," Tommy says again, more certain this time, and opens his legs a little more, like an invite.

Jon lets a sound out of his throat, and goes back down. It’s more familiar already; he can imagine, already, doing this enough to be good at it. Sucking Tommy’s cock enough to be easy and confident and—possessive, maybe. Tommy coming in from the cold and Jon tugging him by his belt loops toward the bedroom, desperate, pushing Tommy down on the bed and dropping to his knees.

He could do that. He can imagine Tommy shucking his jeans for him, maybe—maybe pushing Jon's head down, encouraging. Telling him he's good.

Tommy’s hand is gentle on his head now. Jon likes that, too, the soft way Tommy’s thumb is petting his hair.

Above him, Tommy grates out, “I’m gonna—you should—I’m gonna come.”

Tommy's gonna— _fuck_ , that's so—Jon doesn't pull back immediately, even though he's pretty sure he can't do anything fancy right now, because he _likes_ this, likes the way Tommy's thighs are going taut under his hands, likes the way Tommy is breathing in short sharp bursts, like he's trying to keep control of himself. Like Jon is doing it right. Making him feel good.

"Jon," Tommy chokes, more urgently, "I'm—really—" and Jon lifts off, jerks Tommy off instead. He's only just got his hand round Tommy's dick when Tommy gasps and starts to come, trembling.

Jon’s never been that into money shots in porn; it never did anything for him. He’s swiftly revising that opinion, watching Tommy spurt over Jon’s hand. It’s—perfect. Messy and undeniable. Jon made that happen. Jon made Tommy come.

Suddenly he needs Tommy’s hand back on him like he needs air.

"Tom," he manages, struggling for words. "Please—I—" and then Tommy is there, kissing him again, pressing all along him. Jon clutches at him with his wet hand without thinking, and then doesn't let go.

“We’re gonna need to do laundry,” Tommy mumbles, and then he’s pushing Jon down onto the couch, straddling him. He hisses when his sensitized dick brushes Jon’s jeans, but doesn’t stop leaning back in to kiss him, hard, pressing him down into the cushions.

Jon feels like he might fly out of his skin, has to grab at Tommy's back. He's pushing up for friction, letting Tommy hold him down, and then— _god_ —Tommy's hand finds his dick again, stroking firm and confident.

"You're so wet," Tommy breathes, and he sounds so amazed that Jon can't feel bad about it. "Fuck, you're—let me—" and he speeds up, hand perfect around Jon.

The porn is still playing. Jon can barely even remember it's there.

“Kiss—god—kiss me again,” Jon says, and Tommy leans down again. Jon’s too focused on his cock to give as good as he’s getting, but Tommy doing all the work is still good. Tommy’s sucking on his lower lip, grazing teeth across it, dipping to kiss Jon’s throat.

Jon’s hips jerk up into Tommy’s hand, and Tommy murmurs, “Yeah, Jon. Yeah. ‘S good, right?”

"So good," Jon says, his voice slurring slightly. "'S good, it's—kiss me, please, please," and he knows he's tipped into begging but he can't bring himself to care too much, not with Tommy in control like this, kissing him hard and stroking him harder.

He squirms under Tommy. Tommy’s so big, over him; Jon’s never been with anyone who could cover him like this. Tommy’s mostly holding himself above Jon, leaving room to jerk Jon off, but Jon can picture how Tommy could weigh him down for real. Tommy could grind down against him and—and press their cocks together maybe, and—Jon would be helpless under him, just need and friction and—

Jon sucks in a breath, hips jerking, and comes. It rushes through him, whiting everything out, and when he blinks back to reality, the first thing he hears is a voice from the TV saying, “Harder! Harder, Robert!”

He catches Tommy's eye, both of them breathing hard still, and they burst out laughing. Tommy's laughing so much he has to let his weight down on Jon for real, giggling high-pitched the way he does when he can't help it at all, and Jon's laughing too, wrapping his arms around Tommy to try and keep them both on the couch.

"Oh, Robert," Tommy says, in falsetto, when they've slightly calmed down, and it sets them both off again for good.

They’re still laughing a bit, on and off, when Tommy finally reaches around to get the remote and click the TV off, levers back up to sitting. He’s still pantsless, and Jon watches, feeling overcome with fondness, as Tommy pulls his underwear out of his jeans and starts to wiggle back into both.

“So, uh,” Jon says, tucking himself back in and rebuttoning his fly. “If your plan with the Skinimax was to seduce me, like, good job.” He doesn’t end it on a question exactly, but he’s curious.

Tommy's bright red, but he's been flushed since before they started so that doesn't give Jon any clue.

"I didn't—I didn't plan—I—"

Jon bites the inside of his lip. He’s better at this part than Tommy is; at least there’s something he seems more experienced at. “You always have been good on your feet,” he interrupts. “You know, quick thinking, positive outcomes. This was definitely a positive outcome.” That one definitely isn’t a question. If Tommy doesn’t want him now, after they’ve gotten off, then Jon will deal with that. But something tells him his usual confidence isn’t misplaced.

"Yeah?" Tommy turns to him again. He looks so openly hopeful that it makes something in Jon's chest squeeze. "You think so too?"

“Yeah. Totally, yeah. Like—unexpected. Um, obviously. But positive, yeah.”

Tommy’s smile is broad, pushing up into his pink cheeks. “Awesome. Uh, we could—there’s probably other stuff on?”

“Or we could sleep,” Jon says. He’s getting sleepy in a contented, post-orgasmic way. “Maybe in one bed. And then get up in the morning and like, go for breakfast.”

Tommy's still smiling, so big. "My bed's got a shitty mattress," he says. "There's a dip in the middle. We'll probably end up kind of... together."

Jon reaches out for him, fumbling for Tommy's strong hand. That hand just made him come, he thinks. "Together works for me."


End file.
